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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25288201">Minty Fresh</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/mageicalwishes/pseuds/mageicalwishes'>mageicalwishes</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Dramatic Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Fluff, M/M, Morning Cuddles, Morning Kisses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 05:42:26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,465</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25288201</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/mageicalwishes/pseuds/mageicalwishes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A softer re-imagining of the morning after the forest fire.<br/>"Pulling back, I take him all in - His hair fanned out against the pillow, and a raw, dazed expression gracing his face (All traces of his usual smugness, thankfully, removed). Before he quickly snaps back into himself - Grimacing up at me, and turning his face to hide it in the pillow. The tips of his ears colouring slightly, as he does so, clearly embarrassed (I wonder if he can blush properly. He hasn’t yet, I don’t think, but maybe I just need to try harder. It would definitely be worth the effort)."</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch &amp; Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>143</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Minty Fresh</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Please forgive the title of this fic lol!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u"> <strong>Simon</strong> </span>
</p><p>Baz has barely a second to properly open his eyes, before I jump him again - Pressing him down into the mattress, and littering his face in kisses (I’ve been awake for<em> at least </em> an hour just waiting for him to wake up, and I’m not known to be the most patient person, so I don't want to waste a second). </p><p>Pushing his palms against my chest, he rolls me away onto my back besides him, with a groan. </p><p>“Snow. You <em> need </em> to brush your teeth,” he complains. </p><p>But I’m so distracted by the lushness of his voice, still deepened with sleep, that I miss most of what he’s trying to say (It isn’t my fault, though. He sounds fit. <em> Super fucking fit </em> ). I do, however, catch that he’s gone back to calling me Snow, which is annoying. I wish he’d just call me Simon. He did <em>last night.</em> </p><p>“What?” I ask, dumbly. </p><p>“You need to brush your teeth.” </p><p>“Nu uh,” I argue, propping myself up on my elbows and smiling down at him. “You’re not the Queen of bloody England, Baz. You can handle morning breath.” </p><p>“I absolutely can not.” </p><p>I roll my eyes. <em> Dramatic bastard.  </em></p><p>“Just spell them then,<em> fusspot.</em>” </p><p>“God, <em>please</em> don’t tell me that you just spell your teeth,” he moans. “I remember your <b> <em>‘Clean as a Whistle’</em> </b> showering phase in Fourth year, you know? I <em> won’t </em>tolerate a repeat of that just because we snogged.” </p><p>“Just because we’re snogging,” I correct. “Present tense.”</p><p>He arches an elegant brow up at me, but he doesn’t argue - Which is good. We’re <em> definitely </em>still snogging. Whether he wants to admit it, or not. </p><p>“I<em> don’t </em> spell my teeth, you dick!” </p><p>“Fine. Then go and brush them.” </p><p>Pouting, I grab a hold of his wrist and squeeze. His skin cool against mine - Although, definitely warmer than it was last night (I must’ve warmed him up with all the cuddling - He slept in my arms last night. It was <em>proper</em> ridiculous). </p><p>“No, Baz,” I whine, shifting and straddling his lap.“I wanna’ stay here with you. So just … spell them, or suck it up.” </p><p>Scoffing, he reaches over and grabs his wand from his bedside table - Apparently unwilling to argue it any further. </p><p>“Fine, you mule. <em> Smile.</em>” </p><p>Pleased, I obey - Flashing him my widest photograph smile, as he rests his wand against my front teeth (There’s a slight gap between them, but he doesn’t say anything about it). </p><p>
  <em> <strong>“Minty Fresh.” </strong> </em>
</p><p>“There we go,” I say, smiling down at him properly now. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” </p><p>“Well ... you say that, but it <em>clearly </em>goes beyond your level of capability. So, I’d argue that it’s hard enough.”</p><p>While his words are as sharp as ever, I can tell that he doesn’t really mean them. There’s no malice in his voice, just light amusement. It’s <em>teasing,</em> not taunting. And I like it. I like this. A softer Baz. A <em>sweeter</em> Baz. </p><p>“Whatever,” I groan, leaning down towards him, so that our faces are mere centimetres apart. “Can I kiss you now?” </p><p>“If you must,” he breezes, nonchalantly (Although his voice wobbles slightly - Giving him away. He wants this just as much as me, I know).</p><p>And so I do, reaching down and pressing our lips together without further discussion. Baz falling soft and pliant, as he sighs contentedly. My chest constricting at the feel of him - All safe, and warm, and happy, with me. </p><p>And it’s all so much slower this time - Languid and unhurried where it was clashing and desperate (Last night was a bit of a fever dream) - but it’s no less good. In fact, it’s better like this. In the still light of morning, it all feels far more real. Far less <em> fragile. </em> And it’s driving me barmy - My heart swelling and racing, eagerly, with every move against him. </p><p><em> Shit. </em> Maybe I <em> am </em> Gay? I probably wouldn’t be enjoying this as much as I am, if I wasn’t, right? I mean, I know some straight people, like, <em> ‘experiment’ </em> with stuff like this, but I’m pretty sure that’s not what I’m doing. Last night I kissed him ‘cause I wanted to, not for … science, or some shit. I just … wanted it. I <em> still </em> want it. So that must make me … <em>Something? </em></p><p>But as I start to question myself - What all of … <em> this, </em>makes me - My throat fills with that typical stressed tightness, and I decide to stop thinking about it (For now, anyway). There’s <em> much </em> better things to focus on, at the moment. Like Baz. And breakfast (I hope we’re having breakfast. Sometimes he skips it at Watford, but that’s probably just ‘cause of the fang thing. Hopefully he won't today). </p><p>Pulling back, I take him all in - His hair fanned out against the pillow, and a raw, dazed expression gracing his face (All traces of his usual smugness, thankfully, removed). Before he quickly snaps back into himself - Grimacing up at me, and turning his face to hide it in the pillow. The tips of his ears colouring slightly, as he does so, clearly embarrassed (I wonder if he can blush properly. He hasn’t yet, I don’t think, but maybe I just need to try harder. It would <em> definitely </em> be worth the effort). </p><p>“Take a picture, Snow. It’ll last longer,” he drones, his voice filled with, what I <em> now </em> suspect, is <em> faux </em>confidence. </p><p>And, even though he clearly doesn’t mean it, I really think that I might. <em>He’s so beautiful. </em></p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>We’ve stopped kissing now; opting, instead, to lie together, quietly. Snuggled up under the warmth of his duvet. </p><p>We’re positioned similarly to last night - Bodies pressed firmly together, an arm slung over his waist - Except <em> this </em> time, we’re facing one another. The tip of his slightly skewiff nose resting against mine, as we look at each other. Well … <em> I’m </em> looking at him - At his stormy grey eyes, and his slightly cut bottom lip (It must be from the fangs. <em> It’s so fucking wicked that he has fangs</em>). But <em> he’s </em> looking … somewhere behind me. His brow furrowed, and a gnarled little scowl spread across his lips (I <em> would </em> try to kiss it away, if I thought that it would work, but I doubt it. He seems too … stressed, for all of that). </p><p>Instead, I splay my hand out against his stomach. Tracing, what I<em> hope </em> are, comforting circles against the soft skin there. And it all feels a little bit strange; since I haven’t done anything like this before (Agatha wasn’t big on physical affection), but he isn’t complaining, so I think he’s happy enough. Baz is <em> definitely </em> the kind of guy to scold a - Lover? Boyfriend? Enemy roommate with benefits? Whatever - for doing something wrong. He’s not one to accept mediocrity (Which sort of makes me wonder what I’m even doing here <em>at all,</em> to be honest), so his silence <em>must</em> be a good sign. </p><p>“Baz,” I whisper. “Are you alright? You seem all … far away.” </p><p>“I’m alright,” he sighs, scrunching his eyes shut (Even though he <em>definitely</em> doesn't seem it). “I’m just thinking.” </p><p>“‘Bout what?” </p><p>“You.” </p><p>
  <em> Oh. Crowley. He shouldn’t be allowed to say things like that.  </em>
</p><p>“What about me?” </p><p>“About how … I’m not entirely sure that all of <em> this, </em> isn’t just the effect of some kind of <b> <em>‘Sweet Dreams’</em> </b> spell,” he says, jaw tight, and voice strained. “I hope you know that, if I wake up and I’m back at Watford, I <em> won’t </em> hesitate to throttle you.”</p><p>Helplessly, I beam over at him (Even though that’s probably a more-than-a-little-bit of a fucked up response to being threatened). </p><p>“I know. But this ‘ain't a dream. I promise. See?” I laugh, pinching at his waist, forcefully. Pulling a girlish little yelp from his lips (Much to my delight). “If this were a dream,<em> that </em> would’ve woken you up.” </p><p>“Brute,” he grumbles, swatting at my wrist. “There were less <em>aggressive</em> ways you could’ve proved your point.” </p><p>I shrug. “Probably. I couldn’t think of any, though. And I didn’t do it <em> that </em> hard, you're just being sensitive” </p><p>“Whatever you say, Snow.” </p><p>“Yeah,” I smile. “But, uh …. Why would it be a dream, anyway? This would be a bit of a weird dream, no?” </p><p>“Trust me, I’ve had weirder.”</p><p>“Starring me?” I ask, curious (And perhaps a little puffed up). </p><p>“Starring you,” he confirms, eyes searching my face desperately. </p><p>
  <em> Jesus Christ. </em>
</p><p>The absolute earnestness of his confession takes me by surprise; knocking the breath <em>right out</em> of my lungs. Since he <em> definitely </em> isn’t taking the piss (He looks much too frightened to be joking). </p><p>“Wicked,” I breathe. And I really<em> am </em> trying my best to be reassuring, but my apparent go-to tactic of calling things he’s insecure about ‘wicked’, probably isn’t doing much in terms of restoring his self-esteem. “I mean … not <em>that.</em> No, I mean that <em> is </em>wicked, but just … I dream about you too.” </p><p>“Yes, Snow, I know,” he sighs. “I’ve been witness to plenty of your nightmare sessions.” </p><p>“No,” I groan. “I mean … sometimes, yeah. But you’re in my nice dreams, too, sometimes. More so, recently.” </p><p>He scrunches up his face, apparently unsure of what to say (And I never thought that I’d live to see the day that I finally succeeded in leaving him speechless, but here we are). </p><p>“Baz, um … how long have you actually … <em>wanted</em> this?”</p><p>“Why?” he drawls, hands scrunching up into tensed fists, against my chest.</p><p>“I’m just curious. It doesn’t, like, <em> matter </em> or anything? I just wanted to know.” </p><p>Silently, he reaches up and starts smoothing the lines of my upper-arm, anxiously (I think he might have a bit of a <em>‘thing’</em> for my arms, to be honest. He kept on squeezing them last night, like he couldn’t get enough. And, I suppose that, with all the sword-wielding I’ve done over the past few years, they’re pretty alright. If he didn’t have his vampire super-strength <em>bullshit,</em> I reckon that I could have him in an arm wrestling match). </p><p>“A long time,” he mumbles. “I … figured it out for <em> sure, </em> in Fifth year. But it started before then. <em> Long </em> before then.”</p><p>“How much longer?”  </p><p>“Basically the day we met.” </p><p><em> “Oh,</em>" I gasp. </p><p>And I know that I should probably think of something <em>better</em> to say, considering that he’s just fessed up to having had a crush on me for the better part of a decade, but I’m feeling a little ... overwhelmed, to say the least. </p><p>“Yes. <em> ‘Oh’,”</em> he spits, all bitter and sulky. </p><p>And while I <em> do </em> understand his frustration with my … <em> underwhelming </em> reply, I’m really not sure what <em>else</em> he was expecting. We both know that I’m no good with words, and it’s not like he spent all his time at Watford writing me love letters (Pretty much the opposite, actually). </p><p>“Don’t be like <em> that,” </em> I groan, reaching out and brushing a stray wave of hair away from his face. “I only <em> realised </em> yesterday, but … I think that it’s been longer than that for me, too. Penny <em> may </em> have had a point about the football matches, you know?” </p><p>“The football matches?” </p><p>“Yeah, um … you know how I used to go to all of your games?”</p><p>“Of course. Simon Snow: my greatest enemy and number one footie supporter. Bit of a contradiction.” </p><p>“Yeah, well … Penny said that she thought it was weird. Not in like a … homophobic way, or something-” He snickers then, put I press on, regardless. “I’m not even … you know. But she said that I should think about why I <em> really </em> wanted to go to them so badly, considering that there was pretty much <em> no </em> <em> chance</em> of you plotting while you were on the pitch-”</p><p>“Which I <em> tried </em> to tell you, <em> several </em> times,” he interrupts (Apparently <em> incapable </em> of stopping himself from butting in, for even a minute). </p><p>“- Yes, which you <em>tried</em> to tell me ... <em> Anyway, </em> back to what I <em> was </em> saying! I never really listened to her when she said it - I just got all stroppy with her ‘cause she was always complaining about me being obsessed, or whatever - But … I think maybe I <em>should’ve.</em> 'Cause, I think she <em>may</em> have had a point ... I’m not so sure that it really <em> was </em> about the plotting. I mean, I think even <em> I </em> knew, deep down, that you couldn’t have been doing that. And … I always kind of, secretly, wanted you to do the thing where you lifted up your shirt to wipe your face. I never really thought about it at the time, ‘cause it stressed me out a little bit. But it <em>definitely</em> used to confuse me. I … just tried put it down to jealousy, and all that, but I’m pretty sure that I was wrong, given … recent <em>events.</em> I think I probably just thought you were a bit fit, to be honest.”</p><p>The last few words come out horribly stumbled and rushed, and I’m <em> definitely </em> blushing like an idiot, by the time I’ve finished. But then he’s grinning up at me, the corners of his eyes crinkling up cutely (And it’s still a weird to think of him like that, since he could probably drain me dry in half a second, but it’s definitely fitting when he’s like this. All joyful and barbless), and my humiliation is suddenly all worth it. </p><p>“Is that so?” he purrs. </p><p>“Yep. Definitely.”</p><p>And then he’s muttering something in Italian (Mera-viggy-soemthing-or-other), and pulling me back down towards him by the back of my neck. Shutting me up in the <em>absolute</em> best way possible - Pressing his lips against mine greedily. And it’s all a little apprehensive - Breaths stuttering, and a slight tremble running up his spine - But what he lacks in confidence, he <em>more</em> than makes up for in enthusiasm (He’s always been a quick study, but I can finally appreciate his, oftentimes annoying, meticulous nature, for myself). And soon enough I’m just fucking melting into his touch - So hot and insistent - But I <em>still</em> can’t stop the words from bubbling up inside me:</p><p>“Baz,” I sing, sitting back and cupping his face in my hands. “You know that this isn’t fair <em> at all, </em> right?” </p><p>“What?” he startles, a worried twist overtaking his brow. The concern on his face so genuine, that I almost feel guilty for what I’m doing … <em> Almost </em> (He <em> definitely </em> still deserves it for being so bloody prissy all the time). </p><p>“You didn’t spell <em> your </em> teeth. It’s well harsh making me all Aero-y, if you’re not willing to do the same yourself. Both <em> disgusting </em> and <em> grossly </em> unfair,” I tease, doing my best to mimic his signature <em> ‘I’m Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch and I think I’m better than everybody else’ </em> voice. </p><p>Glaring up at me, he grabs at his wand and fires out another quick <strong><em>"M</em></strong><strong><em>inty Fresh"</em></strong>, before reaching out and grabbing at my curls, giving them a not-so-gentle tug. </p><p>“Happy now, ‘<em>fusspot’?” </em></p><p>“Oh yeah,” I glow. “More than.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for reading :)<br/>My Tumblr: <a href="https://mageicalwishes.tumblr.com/">Link text</a><br/>Also ... The Italian word Baz used was 'Meraviglioso' which is basically just 'Wonderful'.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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